Of course he couldn't help the scar; well, he couldn't help any of it, for that matter; but she might like to know about the scar. They almost got him that time! It was rum, that particular tribe taking a round piece out of an enemy's cheek and stringing 'em on a necklace to hang round the joss's neck. Gee! that was a close shave! His eyes narrowed, seeing strange things through their thick lashes. A camp in a mountain pass, snowbound; food gone, water low. Lowering faces of yellow men, huddled round a fire, casting evil looks at the two, the white man and his faithful "boy," guarding the water skin. Then the rush, five against two; the daggers gleaming, the wild cries, the shots--how the echoes went battering back and forth between the rock walls! then the shriek, the fall--Tom shut his eyes, and drew a quick breath. He was a kindly man. It was an ugly sight, that figure pitching headlong over the edge, its yellow robes fluttering back like the wings of some great swooping bird--bah! "I _had_ to kill him!" said Tom. "He almost got me, and anyway we couldn't have managed but four. All the same," he added, his eyes still on the bronzed face in the glass, "it is not precisely a ducal countenance that will greet you, Kitty my dear. Will you mind very much? You shall have the silks and satins all right, little girl. "'38 for to wear, And a coach and six for to take the air.'" (I wonder what I shall find at the station: Flanagan, I suppose, with the 'speed hoss.' I'll walk, if it holds up a bit.) "'And she shall drive in St. James's Square, And no lady in the city shall with her compare--'" "_Oxcuse me, sair!_" Tom started, and turned in his seat, to behold a bearded and spectacled person of studious appearance, quivering with some strong emotion. "I beg pardon?" The gentleman's aspect relaxed slightly: Tom's speaking voice was of delightful quality, cordial and musical. "Oxcuse me, sair!" the bearded one repeated. "I am a musician!" Tom bowed slightly. "Awfully jolly, I'm sure!" he murmured. "Must be an interesting profession." "Zat air zat you sing," the gentleman continued, "it is _nossing_: but nossing at all! it is no composeetion! _ça m'agace les nerfs, jusqu' à la frénesie_----" "_Mille pardons, Monsieur!_" Tom spoke excellent French. He was extremely sorry to have offended a musical ear; he was humming unconsciously. He explained that the air was an ancient one: an old English folk-song and dance. "Ah!" the clouded brow cleared instantly. English! that explained itself. A great nation, but unmusical. Still, the song of the people, that revealed the heart; he in return asked a thousand pardons. Let Monsieur, he begged, continue to carol the artless chant of our Saxon neighbor highly respected. He begged, he insisted. Come, then! Let us hear the little air! it might--who knew?--be arranged---- "Tinkham!" shouted the brakeman.